


?Okay¿

by MindStaticIncarnate



Category: Vocaloid
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Human, Boys Kissing, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Len Is Trying His Best, M/M, Oliver Has Self-Worth Issues, Very little dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28840818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindStaticIncarnate/pseuds/MindStaticIncarnate
Summary: He couldn’t remember what he had been talking about, but he felt the shapes of these words in his mouth like they were the only right things to say.“So it’s okay. If you... If you’re not gentle.”
Relationships: Kagamine Len/OLIVER
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	?Okay¿

It was planned yet unplanned simultaneously. You can’t really say no or yes when you feel you’re on the exact same wavelength as someone else. Words are redundant when you feel like you can read their mind. They had been talking about who cares what, pressed into each other’s sides on the couch, and then the words turned into kisses and neither Len nor Oliver had any idea who started it. 

It felt good to be with someone who simply felt the same things. Oliver couldn’t remember why he had been so anxious.

Len’s hands were rough, calloused from playing the thick strings of his bass, but they were careful as they held Oliver. Slow moving across the backs of his shoulders. Resting on the nape of his neck. Len’s arms were strong and steady and Oliver simply wanted to be embraced tight in that safety but kissing felt nice too. It felt better than nice. Threading his fingers through Len’s hair, soft and warm, nothing unexpected. All he could think about was 

_How could I have been so scared?_

_Scared of this? Scared of—?_

Then a hand was touching him and he didn’t know where he was. Underneath his shirt. The softest, most loving, almost hesitant graze of warm fingertips beginning at the small of his back and traveling up his spine. A hand, a palm pressed to the middle of his back. Skin on skin. 

Oliver stared upwards. Static flowed through his veins, replacing his blood. He couldn’t feel his legs. Nothing unexpected. The ceiling existed as the only real thing and everything between himself and it blurred and distorted. 

A movement in front of his face. 

An inkling in the back of his mind formed, telling him something, reminding him who this person was, but he pressed it down. Suffocating it. Smothering it. An even tinier voice whispered,

_you’re older now. you’re stronger now. you can fight back now._

But he couldn’t think. He wouldn’t dare to. Thinking made it worse. Struggling made it worse. Doing anything other than making his body go limp and allowing it to happen and letting his thoughts devolve into a nebulous haze made it so much worse. 

The voice took on a different tone. 

The room wasn’t there. He couldn’t tell what was real or not or if hours or only minutes had passed. The hand was still there, directly touching his skin. But it wasn’t there. His eye was open but he couldn’t see anything. Wait. His eye was closed. He peered through his eyelashes, trying to filter out what was real. Who was there? Whose hands were those?

Now he was sitting up. He wasn’t on the couch anymore. No hands were on his body. No violent and hot and angry hands. No deceptively soft and tender hands. No familiar or unfamiliar hands. No hands at all. 

A blanket had been draped over his shoulders. His fingers wrapped around a cup of water. He stared at the liquid and the kitchen table underneath it and suddenly there was less of it in the cup and he couldn’t recall sipping it or even lifting it to his lips. If he wasn’t controlling his body, who was? Nothing seemed real, least of all himself. 

Oh yeah. Len was there. Len was talking. 

It was hard to remember who he was. These arms and hands and ears and lips weren’t his. They were just arranged together, a strange kindergarten art project that was definitely not a human person. 

Did the clock on the wall always tick so loud...?

The mouth of two crayons crushed together said, “ ‘m okay.”

Len’s posture shifted. He said something. Was that Len’s face? Or Oliver looking into a mirror? Wait, right. It had been some time since he had owned a complete set of eyes. Len spoke again. 

Everything fell silent. The roaring in his ears faded and he couldn’t hear the clock. Someone must’ve smashed the clock. 

Eighteen year old Oliver sat back and watched. This space he had been confined to abandon before. Imaginary dust bunnies cling to the nonexistent walls. The hushed room elongated and stretched and he saw a little boy who looked familiar, familiar far off in the distance. Nothing made sense. Len was far away too. This little boy was clinging onto Len and telling him something. This little kid was sobbing and telling him something. Too far away to hear. What was he saying? Who was this kid again? Why was he crying?

Len’s face contorted with each secret revealed and his eyes changed with every rushed confession and his hands reached out but didn’t touch and Oliver found himself in the real room again, mumbling while his skin and stomach scorched themselves in silent panic, 

“So iss’kay...” 

He weakly coughed. The lump in his throat remained. He couldn’t remember what he had been talking about, but he felt the shapes of these words in his mouth like they were the only right things to say. 

“So it’s okay. If you... If you’re not gentle.”

His cup had weight in his hands. He couldn’t remember what he had told Len. Had he told Len anything? Was he even talking at all? Was his mouth moving right now and he just didn’t realize it? He couldn’t remember why they were sitting here. Weren’t they just talking on the couch? What happened between then and now? Why was he thinking about crayons? Wasn’t this the blanket from Len’s bed? Why did—

“Oliver, no.”

Why did Len look like that? Oliver could’ve sworn there was a third person in the room. 

“It’s not okay,” Len said. His eyes wavered, melty like oil paints and horrified like—

Oh. 

So it _was_ a mirror. 

Oliver/Len shook his head. 

“That is not okay.”


End file.
